


It was always you. And him, and perhaps us.

by teaceylon



Category: Formula 1 RPF
Genre: M/M, POV Pierre, one-sided
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-13
Updated: 2020-02-13
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:40:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22691146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teaceylon/pseuds/teaceylon
Summary: He thought he would have been the protagonist in the story.He had been watching, he had always been there, the closest companion. Until he finally realized that he was just the bystander, the audience, watching it all play in front of him.---A one-sided point of view from Pierre, looking at him, Charles, and perhaps with Max.
Relationships: Charles Leclerc/Max Verstappen, Marcus ericsson/Charles leclerc (mentioned), Pierre Gasly/Charles Leclerc
Comments: 13
Kudos: 51





	It was always you. And him, and perhaps us.

He had always thought he’d be the one in the end. That no matter who they cross paths with, whoever they flirt with, in whose bed they would wake up in the morning after, he thought that no matter what, Pierre and Charles, they’d be the person to eventually claim each other.

But in the back of his mind, there’s always something inkling, that the idea of them two together seemed just a self-indulging image.

There are times when Charles was so distant.

He would wear that shy smile, mildly nodding to conversations, blinking every now and then as sunshine through the blinds changes shades on his sharp cheekbones, but he’s absent-minded, eyes unfocused, words and sound passing him by, leaving no trace and no weight.

Sometimes Charles was just ‘not-there’ and his presence thin and ephemeral. With all the hype, loud music, and fancy drinking filling up bland glamour in their lives, he looked zoned out, drifting somewhere faraway, beyond the hassling noises, dissipating into a place beyond Pierre’s reach. He was into it, and out of it at the same time, as if everything happens around, and nothing really does.

Pierre had always wanted leave something in Charles, something of weight to hold him down.

He would threw his arms around the other to keep them close, and hope that in time, Charles would blink the nothingness away, and they’ll share the solid ground together.

He knew Charles, all the tragic events and how they’ve changed him. They were so close, closer than any drivers and friends on and off the grid. They’ve raced each other for so long, shared celebratory champagne and hung-over coffees, breathed in so many moments together, secretly kissed and held their hands behind everyone else’ backs.

But, as there always will be, a _but_.

And he would wake up from a dazed dream, only to find out that he was just one of the audiences, sitting in the front row, a spectator, a 3rd person, seeing all the whirls around Charles happen. And he could only watch.

——

“Marcus’ treating you well.” Pierre said casually when they’re spending the late morning together, lazily lying on the sofa.

Charles hummed softly, curling up by Pierre’s side, their feet playfully touching each other. “We’re having some good times together.”

“The whole Sauber team petted you like a puppy, Marcus included.”

He pouted a bit, looking more like a smirk. “It actually felt pretty good when he ruffles my hair like that.”

“You like having someone taking care of you?” He pretended to protest. “Isn’t that what I’ve been doing all along?”

“He takes _good_ care of me.” Hiding nothing, Charles admitted with mischievous grin. “It felt…safe somehow when he holds me down like that. Besides, he’s got huuuuge bed. It was like sinking into a heap of marsh mellows, soooo comfy.”

Pierre snorted, uninterested in the details.

He was not lying when referring Charles to the paddock’s puppy, much loved, but with caution. He’d seen how Marcus held Charles like some precious treasure, yet at the same time could not conceal the competitiveness and jealousy, and that conflicting emotions just made his moves awkward and sweet all at once.

People talked about Charles with mixed feelings. The prodigy, the young prince bearing so much hope, and the kid pitied for all the sad stories. All this not without a stint of envy and judgement, wary calculations and behind-the-scenes politics.

Charles took it all, and played his part, dutifully posing the charming and coy figure. Only very rarely in the shadows, Pierre would see Charles gritting his teeth, clenching fists so hard that it’s definitely going to bleed. As if fighting against something dark within, so hard to reconcile with. It’s like blazes of fury slowly building up a black acid pool.

He just didn’t show it, willingly and naturally hiding it within himself. Pierre wondered if Charles ever noticed this part of him, or he just ignores it.

Pierre wanted to ask, but felt it’d be a delicate scale too dangerous and fragile, too easy to break.

It's probably good to have Marcus around, he thought. With the Swede, Charles indulged himself being the softy and cuddly puppy. Pierre was half-relieved, seeing Charles relaxed in Marcus’ arms, giggling.

“From Marcus?“ Pierre nodded to the buzzing phone on the table.

“Yeah. I’m gonna meet him for dinner and later for the night.”

Pausing for a few seconds, Pierre hesitantly asked “Is it true he’s leaving F1 after this season?”

Gossip has been loud around the paddock, that the younger had outshined the experienced, and that the Swede would be out of his seat. He was slightly worried if this would sour the relationship between the two.

“You know it better, that it was not exactly us to make the call.” Charles just shrugged, eyes fixed on the TV, acting indifferently.

“…Have you thought about what would happen? If you’re signed to Ferrari, or if he’s leaving?”

“Well I’d like to stay in touch. With internet, contacts and social media, it’s not difficult.”

That’s not what I meant, Pierre sighed. “What if he just, leaves?”

Charles turned around and looked at him confused, and Pierre felt almost a bit angry about this display of innocence or carelessness.

“What about it?“

“What would happen to you two?” _or, us?_ He secretly thought to himself. “Like, staying together or something?”

Tilting his head, Charles pondered on the thought for a brief second, yet his tone stayed flat. “If he couldn’t stand me anymore, or if the circumstance changes, then we’ll just have to go on our separate ways. We’ll still be friends on twitter and instagram, always a click away to say hi.”

“You don’t really seem to mind. How?” Pierre snorted “It’s not those ‘no strings attached’ kind, please.”

“No it’s not! I do like Marcus.“ Charles raised his voice and protested. “It’s just, not up to me, I guess.”

_You just don’t want it to be up to you. You want to not-care._

Perhaps it was through all the uncertainties and impermanence in life that Charles had learnt not to hope or crave for anything except victory, the only thing he’d be able to clutch solidly in his hand. And that goal for victory has become the only thing that mattered, to him, to those he lost, and everything else would be just a blur.

Pierre wanted to hold Charles tenderly, and also wanted smack his head and wake him up, but he had not succeeded either way and could not even find the right words.

“Oh I really have to go. Marcus booked us for dinner.” Charles hastily scrambled up from the sofa.

“You coming for breakfast tomorrow?”

“Let’s make it brunch.” He winked and kissed the frenchman on the temple. “I really like the eggs you made last time.”

Pierre laughed, waving see-you as the other walked out. He laid on the sofa for another 15 minutes, staring at the empty hall way, listening to Charles’ footsteps disappearing, and the TV playing cheesy soap opera he couldn’t care less about. He could only watch, seeing his’ shadow washed away, the Monegasque floating further, and he couldn’t help but feeling a bit empty.

————————

He saw Esteban raising an eyebrow, and shot over a look, mouthing “ _Again_.”

Yeah, he rolled his eyes in agreement, seeing Charles and Max bickering with each other, trying to maintain civil politeness, but always end up heated with fury staring. Things were strained between the two, with a tricky tweak. They’d either fight, or remain ice-cold, yet still stealing looks in between, too obvious that only themselves thought they went unnoticed. It’s almost unnatural that even silence between them was made a scene, too much emotion exposed.

“I kind of hope it wouldn’t be a big deal though.” He murmured.

“You’re playing a role in it.“ Esteban nudged him on the shoulder. “C’mon, you and Charles sitting so close at press panel, always getting caught on camera chatting, visiting each other’s motorhomes. Everyone sees you as this french-bonding set.”

“Well, you and I, we didn’t really see eye to eye either when we were 15. But look where we end up, the French gang!”

Esteban shrugged. “I had my history with Max. Not a fan. But he’s not a bad guy. He’s just very aggressive, on and off track. It’s racer nature to get what one wants at all costs.”

It probably is, Pierre agreed, depending on what prize Max had locked his eyes on.

Max and Charles shouldn’t really get along, their childhood fights and complaints were even made viral.

But something’s different.

Max constantly asking about Charles, but always keeping a step’s distance, evaluating on how to approach the other man. It’s almost comical the way they'd awkwardly fidget around one another, as if neither knows how to behave properly, getting too close would burn, but they couldn’t hold it in when left too far. They’d try too hard to earn the attention, and frustrated when it wasn’t reciprocated and eventually ended up enraging the other.

Some may find this just racing rivalry, but the looks don’t deceive.

He’s seen how Max look at Charles. After rounds of handshake greetings with media and fellow drivers, Max would avoid others’ prying and questioning gazes, having his attention fixated at the Monegasque, intense and eager, too much heat and raw desire; or at times Max would seem too wary of the pack of protectors surrounds Charles, staring at everyone, daring anyone to make a move.

He wonders what Max sees in Charles. Most definitely not just a meek, tender puppy. But Max sure enjoys it, perhaps too much to Pierre’s liking.

It wasn’t long before the staring game became mutual, and Charles started throwing similar glances towards the dutchman.

More often than not, Pierre would find Charles eyeing RedBull motorhome, waiting for that certain someone to walk down the aisle, but would quickly avert the looks if anyone raises an eyebrow. The strained tension almost tangible and too present, or one perhaps could describe too bright and too alive.

Charles never asked questions, even to Pierre, only his eyes swimming. He was quietly studying, passive-aggressively observing, until his target appears, and his face would light up, and his smirk suddenly comes with color.

Pierre watches.

It’s like manoeuvring in the labyrinth, a game, in which Charles and Max would not meet eye-to-eye, but treading every step carefully and tentatively, with small and inviting smiles at the corner of their eyes. They’d occasionally pat each other on the shoulder, hands clapping in the back, while fingers intertwining and letting go in an instant, teasing and lingering on the borderline, waiting for something to break. As if they’re trying to figure out the right name for the puzzle both of them know where they had left.

Pierre is worried.

Charles wasn’t invested in juvenile fights and rivalry before, but his suppressed anger and emotions were too easily riled up when Max’s around. He’d get visibly annoyed and provoked, starting to act reckless and frustrated.

The wall of defense he put on had let out a crack, the dark and sluggish emotion leaked, that the perfect prince on a high horse suddenly became earthy, emotions bare and too real. He’s still gentle, kind, but the elusive atmosphere around him had been slowly blown away with every move of the Red Bull super star approaching.

He once asked Max, if he hated Charles, or why else would he almost cruelly expose the Ferrari prodigy like that.

“No! You’re so wrong on this.” The dutchman’s eye widened with surprise “Charles for sure is a rival. But I don’t hate him, and if it’s just about racing, I might as well sort the business on track. I’ve held the ‘torpedo’ title for a while.”

Pierre looked at Max’ funny expression, but there’s definitely more to it, something that lit fire in him. He fruitlessly hoped that Max wasn’t after something he thought he was.

“Charles’ a good guy. I like him.” Max said. “But I also get very, unsettling feelings sometimes, almost on a personal level. He’s playing everything too perfectly, sometimes it even feels fake, and that really irritates me. I need to know about him. I just have to get it right.”

Pierre wanted to say something to defend Charles, to tell Max that they’ve been friends for so long, and that Max cannot just rob this away with his version of Charles.

But Max seemed so self-assured, and he knew he could change nothing in this man. And was Max really wrong? And who is Pierre, to make the call for any of them?

Max looked at him knowingly, his looks unwavering, firm and straightforward.

“I don’t like playing mind games, so I want to make this clear. I don’t hate Charles, and I don’t dislike him.” He said, plain and ever so determined. “I just really want him.”

He was only mildly surprised when he heard Charles’ voice at RedBull motorhome that night, like it’s bound to happen, sooner or later.

It was after a full day of media duties, and late without engines and mechanics hustling, the garage felt too empty, lighting too bright, all the moving shadows and activities in the daytime silenced and died away, only headphones and helmets lining up, reflecting the hollowed spaces, almost calming, that the slightest sound amplified crisp and clear.

Pierre peeped around, and found just enough space around the corner to squeeze himself in to have a look at what Charles was up to.

Taking advantage of the late night hour and quiet motorhome, Charles and Max didn’t even make much effort to hide away.

They were leaning against each side of the wall in the hall way, facing each other, casually chatting with Max’s exaggerated gestures making Charles giggle, and even at this time Pierre still found those dimples very cute.

At first it was some exciting discussion, and Charles laughed to the stupid jokes, smile so wide that his eyes squinted. Then the conversation gradually calmed, Max tried to start a new topic, but frustratedly scratched his head, struggling to find the right words. And Charles waited, smiling and waiting for that decisive moment. He can tell Charles’ attention intently on the other man, focused than ever before.

The minutes passed so slowly. It must be those kind of theory of relativity bs that time is perceived at such prolonged speed, and each of their movements playing at slow-motion mode.

Pierre felt simultaneously out-of-place, yet right at the front row to see all this, the inevitable to happen before him.

It was too faraway, so he couldn’t make out what exactly Max had said. But when Max finally gave up looking for the perfect word, he looked straight into Charles, made his point short and firm, like Max always does, frank and outspoken, leaving no room for arguments.

The air stilled, and Charles eyes widened.

There was a brief moment of panic on Max’s expression, worried that he’s given the wrong speech.

But in no time, Charles’ face beamed with excitement. He was still silent, but breaking into a smile so proud and happy that it’s almost heartbreaking.

This is by no means the fairy tale, vanilla puppy love. They’re racing drivers, they'd hit the walls, cut throat, they'd crash and explode, and every cut so deep that it bleeds.

But unlike the extreme actions on track, this particular moment was still and clear. It was so quiet, that each breath audible, and each step too loud.

Eventually it was Charles who moved first. He held out his hand, lacing their fingers together gently, and surged forward, nose touching Max’s, slowly trailing kisses down his jawline. They were so close, body pressed together, breathes on each others’ skin, and eyes half-closed, kisses slow and longing.

“…Yes, please.”

Those words in a soft whisper from Charles, melting into Max, too intimate and almost fragile between their lips. Pierre thought it sounded much like a prayer.

————————

_Why?_ Pierre wanted to ask, so many times, and so many questions.

All was the same as yesterday, as last month, as always. He watched Charles sitting in the armchair, munching on chips and laughing to boring TV shows. He looked so simple now, without the looming sadness or racing fierceness, just plain and beautiful.

Everything, Monaco, his home, the living room, the sun and the remote sound of waves splashing, even the sofa set, was the same, but also unfamiliar all over again.

_Still, why? You could’ve had anyone._

_Why not Lewis? Why not Marcus? Why not the Prema guys._

_Why not me?_

Marcus with all his caring and protectiveness would lock you in his arms, hold you like a precious gem.

Lewis hasn't been subtle, and praised the Ferrari star like no one else, couldn’t wait to hold you to his victory shelf. He’d give you everything, the attention, appreciation and care.

And I too, we’ve shared every moment of joy and disappointment, all the stupid things, the happy times and tears. We love each other, and we know that we’ll always find consolation and warmth in us.

“I love and care about you very much, Charles.“ Pierre blurted out, trying to sort the sentences in his mind.

“Awww you’re the best. I do too!” Charles returned a grin, biscuit crumbs sticking on the cheek.

He watched as Charles rest his head at the back of the sofa, eyelashes catching sunlight through the blinds, golden streaks on his beautiful profile.

He loved these moments with Charles, easy hours just being there, sharing a moment that would not be taken away by anyone. A privileged, exclusive minute for them both.

But this time, it’s different from Marcus, or those cute flings Charles may have had.

He wanted to criticize, but he knew it’d only sound like whining. He’d say that Max is hotheaded and immature, he wouldn’t know how to protect, he wouldn’t know what ‘cherish’ means, he’s rash, he’s reckless…but all Pierre could only come up with was descriptions too superficial and filmsy.

Max would kill to win. He survived RedBull camp and those poisonous people, he can be vicious and unforgiving, ruthless, doing what ever it takes to get what he wants.

_And why?_

_Why Max?_

Charles looks excited and content. Pierre felt that he has always known all along, that Max was too focused and too alive, too bold and too possessive. He doesn’t protect or treat Charles like an easily breakable glass decoration, that he was eager to devour the other man. And perhaps exactly what Charles craved.

“Max is going to hurt.”

It was not a question, but a statement.

Charles jumped at the unexpected comment, but quickly resumed to the usual composure, relaxed and leaning against the back of the sofa.

As if trying to find a legit explanation, Charles started with “I…” a few times, but eventually gave up and shook his head with a faint smile.

“Yeah, I think I’d like that.”

He sounded almost sweet, shy and pleased, couldn’t hide the grin with visible anticipation. And finally, he only mumbled in a voice so soft and tender, and almost inaudible.

Pierre thought about the times he and Charles hug each other tightly through the losses of loved ones. He thought about the times they’d give each other quick pecks on the cheeks to celebrate, and how they kissed for the first time.

He thought about the times Charles look so empty after races, that even celebration couldn’t reach his eyes, the times Charles would sneak out of the apartment alone, and walked beside the bay at night, letting the dark consume him.

He thought about how Charles looking so alive after the fight with Max. He thought about how so frank and straightforward Max was, hiding nothing in his intent to get Charles, reaching out to grab the other in for a kiss.

He had seen it coming, but he wasn't prepared for it. Pierre could only leave the conversation hanging, without a definitive answer. He doesn’t have an answer for anything.

“Am I going to lose you?” He sighed, no knowing what exactly the question was directed to.

Charles just smiled, let out light chuckles, shaking his head slightly but didn’t answer.

Somewhere out there, not faraway, the waves splashing the shores, and the repetitive sound filling the gaps between their conversation, calming and soothing. Pierre just watched as Charles humming indecipherable tunes, playing with the string of his hoodie with a frayed RedBull logo at the brim.

**Author's Note:**

> I started this WAY back, before Spa 2019, so obviously things are never the same afterwards, characters and their personalities might have changed as well.  
> Charles was an unreal figure to me at that time, and I thought it'd be an interesting take to weave the three together. (I figure I just wanted to write that line 'max is going to hurt' lol).
> 
> I'm really bad at naming titles. Not a native english speaker, and plz kindly excuse me if any grammatical errors. only hoping to get the ideas through :)


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